I step out of the Nuffield Computer Research Centre in Oxford. The sky is cloudy. Rain seems likely. The cold October breeze chills my spine. I clench my fists inside the pockets of my homemade sweater in a vague bid for warmth. My mother's words echo in the freezing air: "Get a good jacket there. Homemade sweaters won't work in the hard winter." I make a quick mental calculation -- £ 150 pounds for the rent, £ 100 for the groceries, £ 50 for the bus and another £ 100 for the books. Which meant I still I have £ 50 left over. That will buy me a good Scottish jacket. I silently curse the scholarship body; why couldn't they have been a bit more generous? It starts drizzling. The wet weather never seems to end here. I look at my watch: 3:57 pm. I have just three minutes to reach the bus stop. If I miss this bus, the next one is only after an hour. "Damn it. I will miss the Metro too." And dinner. Perhaps I will have to survive on milk today. It's so difficult to live alone in an alien country. I had come to England just two months ago to do my masters. I had not wanted to leave my family. My parents wanted me to go. Even though they could not afford to educate me in a prestigious British university. But I had got a scholarship; enough for an "Indian" student to live on. I had yielded to their pressure and left home with tears in my eyes... I start walking faster. I can see the bus turning from the road and heading towards the stop. I run, but miss it by a whisker. "Oh!" I am panting. I sit down on the ice-cold iron bench inside the bus stop's glass shade and reach for my Marlboro pack. There is just one cigarette left. I light it and take a deep breath. The place is lonely; the only living things I can see are the trees shedding red and yellow leaves. It is such a beautiful sight! I lose myself in their beauty. "This is a gorgeous autumn," a soft voice disturbs my peace. I turn my head and see an pretty face with twinkling blue eyes. "I am Jenny and I live in the nearby village," she introduces herself. I come from an orthodox background; I'm not prepared for such accidental conversations, especially when a girl is initiating it. I control my anxiety and reply, "I am an Indian." STUPID. She smiles, "I can guess that... But what do you do?" "I am studying for my masters at the university. Today, I got stuck in a problem and missed my bus." "Oh, I am learning the piano here. There is my school," she points to an old wooden hut. I can't help gazing into her eyes. "Do you want a smoke?" I finally offer her my cigarette. She thinks for a while before putting her hand forward. "Occasionally..." A gust of cold wind blows past us; she huddles into the other corner of the bench. I open my bag and out take an old shawl. "This is my mother's. See if it helps you." "That's so nice of you," she replies in typical British fashion. I tear my eyes off her and look at the icy lake. We both keep quiet; second after uneasy second ticks away. Then, I hear the hum of an engine. "There comes my bus," she says and starts unwrapping the shawl. "Keep it," I say chivalrously. "You may need it when you get down." "Thanks. I come here daily. Take it tomorrow from my school," she yells, as she boards the bus. I wave my hand. The bus starts. Dry oak leaves rush towards it as if they don't want to let it go. My bus comes after a while. Like a robot, I show my card to the driver and take a corner seat. An old White man stares at me in disgust. Racism shows up occasionally, though it is not all that common. I am used to it now. I close my eyes. When I wake up, we are at London's Paddington station. I race towards the platform. This time, I am not unlucky. I enter the train just as the doors close. What relief! Within 30 minutes, I will be home. I pick up a tabloid discarded by a fellow passenger. It is full of scandal and gossip about Britain's royal family. Don't they have better news, I wonder. The train halts. I get off and start walking towards my university. As I reach the hostel gate, I turn towards the mail room. There might be a letter from home today. I open my mailbox and see an airmail letter. The handwriting is familiar. I decide to open it immediately; then change my mind. Let me go to the room first. I am thrilled to get a letter from home, though I can predict its contents exactly. "Take your food properly. Do not roam outside at night. You may catch a cold. Beware of strangers...." An endless stream of advice. Ironically, the writer has never stepped out of her small, north Indian town. I throw my bag on the chair and jump into bed. My hands are itching to open the letter. Apart from the usual stuff, my mother writes the backyard roof has collapsed. The walls have also become weak and require maintenance. I am worried. I know my parents are short on funds. I calculate to see how much they will need. It comes to around Rs 10,000. I have £ 50 pounds with me. I will postpone buying the jacket for a month. I can borrow the rest of the money from my neighbour, Richard. If I work in the library for a couple of hours every day, I will be able to repay the debt within a month. I feel a sense of relief as I switch off the bedside lamp. A gust of cold breeze forces open the windows. I shrink under my thin quilt. Vivek Ojha is now a senior software engineer with HCL Technologies, USA. Illustration: Dominic Xavier Do tell us what you think of this diary
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